Memories

Alone, in my newly redone room, I start sifting through the amassed piles of junk in my closet. I pull the first box on my shelf and find a shoebox time-capsule, pt together a couple of years ago with some friends. I look at the note on it, telling us not to open for four more years. I remember that we agreed to get together and open it when the time came. At that time, we would read the notes we had written ourselves and each other. I shake the box and put it back.

The next box taken down from the abyss contains old camp photographs from several years ago and other odds and ends that would hold no meaning to any other person. Bits, of shells, a neat-looking rock, a fossil, and a strip of plastic, the kind used to indicate future pruning or removal of trees. I decided this was probably from some game of playing pretend, the memory of which escaped me at the moment. I add the contents of this box to an on going “memory box,” which contains similar photos and other pieces of “junk.”

I pull the next two boxes down, and open each of them in turn. Inside I find fossils and such, mementos from a long-ago science class. Subconsciously, I run through each and every class, recalling the good times, every giggle, every joke shared in that class.

Silently, I pack the boxes back up and put each container, filled with laughter and fun, jokes and good times, future and past, back onto the top shelf of my cluttered closet. Organizing can wait, while I sit down at my computer and write down my boxes of memories.